Earthly Possessions
by Joon
Summary: Hastur's out for some revenge--FINISHED!
1. PREVIEW

Hello everyone. 

See, this is what happens: when people give me lots of feedback on my stories, it causes me to spend all my waking hours to come up with new plot ideas. It's sad, I know. 

So, b/c everyone was so kind about my last fan fic attempt, I've managed to come up with a new story idea that springboarded from one of the plot bunnies listed in a group. I've got the preview ready and here it is. 

Just a bit of extra info: DOGMA characters WILL be mentioned. Heck, even quoted as you soon will see. Only the Metatron will make an appearance (the Dogma one) but one or two will be mentioned for the sake of a small plot point. This is NOT a crossover and is even less than my last pseudo-crossover story.

Hope it sparks some interest!

--Janie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Title: Earthly Possessions

Author: janiejoon aka omenesque2001

Time Frame: post-Good Omens

Rating: PG-13 to R for language and violence.

Summary: Sometimes the lines of loyalty and job ethics blur.

Feedback: Oh, yes, PLEASE!!! Send to: omenesque2001@yahoo.com

Archive: Sure, just send me a note letting me know first. Cheers!

Disclaimer: All recognizable Good Omens characters are owned by Pterry and Gneil. Azrael, Bartleby, Loki, and the Metatron are owned by Kevin Smith.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PREVIEW

Of all topics of discussion circulating in the world, the most commonly misrepresented subject was interestingly demonic possession. Despite the fleet of scholars, mystics, and freelance psychics who devoted their lives to its study, current printed information on the subject was on the whole incorrect. This was largely due to the fact that other than for the above mentioned people, it wasn't a very pleasant topic for most persons and it tended to get swept under the rug along with other misrepresented topics such as causes of acne and Catholicism. But another reason was that the only ones who were truly educated in the subject of demonic possession were Satan and the few demons that had had the experience of having to possess a person here and there. And as a rule, the residents of Hell weren't keen on sharing information with outsiders. 

To further illustrate how few beings, if any, outside of Hell knew anything about demonic possession, the following clip from a rather important meeting held back a few years ago has been submitted:

Bartleby (an angel): Check out this pimp! How'd you get out of Hell?

Azrael (a demon): I told them I was coming up on a routine possession. I don't have much time. If they figure out my ruse, they'll come looking for me.

First of all, one should note that there is no such thing as a "routine possession." The very term conjures up the image of one sitting behind a desk, handing out a list of names of people that needed to be possessed for the month. A rather pointless and frivolous action if one really thought about it. Bartleby, by logic and common sense alone should have realized that the demon had been lying. But he did not and the events that followed, though interesting, are not terribly important at the moment. 

To educate: one should first realize that demonic possession was not exactly what people think they are and definitely do not occur as frequently as most believed. Statistics have shown that roughly ten demonic possessions are identified every few decades. This is incorrect. If figure was shaved down to perhaps....three possessions, it would be more accurate. When cases of people frothing at the mouth, swearing off to their parents and elders, and thrashing around on the bed have been reported, the cause is usually a demon having some non-possession related fun or puberty. 

Possessions were usually acts that were done under the most drastic of situations. Usually, demons were not terribly fond of inhabiting a human body they had not mentally created for themselves. It wasn't very comfortable and more often than not the body they took over did not fit them very well. Kind of like wearing your older siblings hand-me-downs that always sagged and pinched in the wrong areas. But every once in awhile, a demon from Hell would be required to possess a human body for whatever reason. 

Ironically, a true demonic possession has never been identified or even remotely recognized. 

At least, that was what Hastur understood as he researched the topic....

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. The Middle Man

Here's the first part. I swear that this is going somewhere. This one   
actually has a plot. *gasp!* And I decided to make it just a little   
harder on myself but making Aziraphale the main contender in this   
one. I seem to enjoy shooting myself in the foot these days....  
  
Here's the first part in any case.  
All disclaimers still apply.

Feedback will be appreciated and also encouraging.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, after more research, Hastur decided possession seemed something that required too much effort. So, he instead shifted his research from the occult-kind to the more technological kind in order to develop his other plan. A simpler method, he had decided would be easier. As long as he got the job done. And it had been because of this decision that Walter Kettich, a resident of London, was sent on a fatal course of events.

Physically and mentally, Walter Kettich was not a remarkable man. One might even categorize him as being slightly below average. He had a face people tended to forget the second they turned their eyes away from him and a voice bland enough that people tended not to listen to a word he said. In the world, Walter was alone, his own family having pretty much abandoned him to fend for himself the minute he was old enough to move out of the house. Walter was currently employed as a guard at the British Museum, his ability to blend into a wall having clinched him the position.

His days were wasted away as he stood at his post in silence. Mostly during those times Walter dreamed. He dreamed of one day being important, of one day having everyone in the world turn towards him as he walked down the street and whisper his name. He wanted to be noticed. And as the days whittled by with each day just like the next, Walter's desires for fame or even notoriety continued to rise. All these factors had made him a perfect candidate in Hastur's mind. 

*Another day gone, just like the one before* Walter had sighed that soon-to-be eventful Wednesday as he shrugged off his limp jacket. Rain, to match his mood drizzled outside of his small apartment window. Letting himself sink onto his couch, Walter let himself fall under the spell of his television set. As images flickered by his eyes, Walter's thoughts dwelled more and more on his pitiful life. Even his inner voice had begun to take on a whine as he considered just how pathetic an existence he was leading.  

Hastur allowed Walter's usual evening depression reach its peak. And then he made his move. To the demon's surprise, gaining Walter's cooperation had gone faster than expected. Desperation and a consuming desire to have something else beyond his current life had shoved Walter towards Hastur. Taking control of the human's limited mental resources had not been much of a challenge.  

For the demon promised him anything and everything he could ever want. He would only have to prove himself first. 

"What must I do?" asked Walter, already hazy under Hastur's influence and the thought of his rewards. 

A particularly unsettling smile appeared on Hastur's face as the tall demon leaned forward towards Walter until he was only a few inches away from the human's face. "You're going demon-hunting."

Walter only blinked, which was fine with Hastur. The less questions the better. "You will need to go to a church first." The demon grimaced at the thought and was incredibly happy that he would not have to personally do the job himself.

"A church...which one?"

"Anyone. And you will need a few things," added the demon, pulling a slightly soggy looking, well-worn magazine from within the inner pockets of his rumpled mack. He tossed it over to Walter who saw it was a catalogue for various home and kitchen appliances. There was a dog-eared page. "And this," continued Hastur, taking out a glass jar from the same hiding place he had been keeping the catalogue.

Walter took it in his hands and looked at it as if it contained the secrets of the world. It was actually only an empty jar that Hastur had actually swiped from Walter's own kitchen cabinets. But the demon allowed Walter to staring at it as if it was the Holy Grail itself. "You'll need to fill that jar once you get to the church."

"Fill it? With what?" asked Walter, lethargically.

The tall demon now grinned with malicious anticipation. "Holy water, of course."


	3. Dodged a Bullet

Slowing the Bentley down as he rounded the corner, Crowley pulled up behind another car just outside of Aziraphale's bookshop. It had four wheels, like his Bentley and there all the similarities ceased. From what Crowley could gather (in the small amount of time his eyes could stand to look at it), the car was painted a dark gold sort of color. The year and make was something the demon skipped over as he was too insulted by its presence. He speculated the owner that went along with it could only be some corporate lackey, who oozed lots of money and poor taste.

After speculating on it for a little while, Crowley decided against blinking it out of existence and instead let himself into Aziraphale's bookshop, not bothering to knock. As a small bell jingled to carol his entrance, Crowley saw the blond angel raise his head from behind the store counter and smile with some relief. 

"Crowley, it's you."

"Had some company?" inquired the demon, looking around once. It was obvious Aziraphale was alone. "Noticed a hideous object out there that might be considered a car."

"Oh, the usual pestering," answered Aziraphale. His expression was slightly apologetic looking as he went on. "I'm afraid I had to be a bit more forceful this time."

Crowley raised an eyebrow but gave a large grin from behind his shades. "Blink him to places unknown, did you? You turning this into a habit, angel?" he asked. 

Crowley had been rather impressed the day Aziraphale had used his heavenly powers and had snapped the rather intrusive officer, Thomas A. Deisenburger out of the way. But Crowley figured that the world had been on the brink of being wiped out and desperate times had called for desperate measures from the usually restrained angel. Besides, after the stop of the Armageddon and several wine glasses later, Aziraphale had fretted for hours until Crowley ended up helping him track down just *where* Deisenburger had been sent to. The demon had complained and resisted admirably at having to do it but Aziraphale's plaintive expressions had been too persuasive. 

But at the moment, Aziraphale only looked puzzled as he walked around from the back of the counter to where Crowley stood by the front door. Opening the door, he noticed the golden eyesore still parked on the curb. "I must have over done the suggestion bit," he said, thoughtfully.

"Did you suggest to him that his wife might be shagging the milkman or something so he'd run home?"

"Hardly. I only suggested that he hadn't called his mother in a long time and that it might be a good idea to give her a visit," answered Aziraphale. 

Crowley rolled his eyes at the sentimentality. "Yeah, come at 'em with all guns blazing. You're a real terror when you want to be, angel," he said, sarcastically.

Aziraphale only laughed at the pseudo-insult and shut the door. Checking the time and seeing it was just after 12:30 in the afternoon, he flipped over the double-sided sign on the door from "Open" to "Closed."

"When did you open?" inquired Crowley. 

"About an hour and a half ago," admitted Aziraphale. He had heard a few taps at his door from would-be customers around 9 in the morning but had ignored them. "Lunch?" he suggested. 

++++++++++++++++++

"It's been over a month now," said Crowley, appreciatively tucking in the last of his curry. "And nothing."

For a couple of weeks after the averted Armageddon, Crowley had been expecting an army of his colleagues to come storming down his door to kill him upon sight. If he was lucky. But all had been quiet ever since the wave of Adam Young's hand. Even after the demon had worked up enough courage to begin watching television and listen to his stereo system again, no supernatural voice interrupted, threatening torture beyond imagination. 

"Nothing from my side, either," Aziraphale responded. "I don't expect they will get in touch with me for quite some time. Not until enough time has passed, that is so that a conversation can be held without seeming strange for not mentioning the whole incident."

"Well, nice to know that shame and embarrassment strikes the Heavenly Powers as well," said Crowley. He thoughtfully stared at the empty place in front of him as their waiter cleared the table. "You think your people'll try and punish you?" he asked.

Aziraphale shook his head. "I don't believe so. I can bet that the Metatron may be a bit sore about the whole thing. But the final word isn't with him. And I don't think that He," said Aziraphale, stressing the world, meaningfully. "Is angry with me."

Crowley nodded, feeling slightly resentful of how easy Aziraphale had it. There were only really two rules to follow if one was an agent of Heaven. And those were don't insult or disobey the Lord and don't help the spread of evil. While Aziraphale constantly pointed out that things were never so black and white, Crowley felt they were a good deal more simple than what he had to contend with. 

Hell was full of bastards and backstabbers, as to be expected. The general rule was that no one should piss off Satan, the All Mighty Ruler of Darkness. But being on Satan's good side (as in the side that wasn't quite *as* evil as his other side) didn't automatically mean you were off scot-free. It was a way of life in Hell to constantly try and get the upper hand on another demon. A constant scrambling, catching and thwarting schemes against you. It was a never-ending play of mind-games down there. Crowley thought it rather lucky that one, no one in Hell was terribly smart except for a select few and two, he didn't have a desk job down there. 

Being on earth gave Crowley a better sense of freedom. Plus, the place offered a nice middle ground where he could be away from the dullness of Heaven but also from the paranoia he would no doubt have developed being in Hell constantly. 

"Over a month," Crowley mused. "I'd say it's a fair bet we're okay," he stated. 

"Back to the usual, then I suppose," said Aziraphale, looking rather pleased with the idea. 


	4. Covert Operations

Okay, here's the next part. FEEDBACK PLEASE!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Getting into the apartment should have been the hardest part. At least in Walter's mind But as it was in all things, Walter did not bet on the right horse. The supposedly high security door was easily opened with a mere slip of a credit card, a testament to the saying that expensive was not always better. Juggling a medium sized box under one arm and now filled glass jar, Walter let himself into the demon's lair.

It wasn't exactly what he had been expecting. 

Despite his conditioned mind courtesy of Hastur, Walter had envisioned the targeted demon's lair to be more on frightening side. But it looked rather...pleasant. Expensive and intimidating in terms of its cleanliness but on the whole a nice place to live. He even noted a row of majestically flourishing plants on the large windowsill in the main room. Walter noted an appropriate looking electric socket in the wall near the plants. That would be a good place. 

Walking over to the small corner of the room, he carefully placed the glass jar that gleamed almost menacingly on the windowsill next to one potted green. Settling himself on the floor, Walter unpacked his medium sized box. 

Had Crowley known about Hastur's plan, he might have actually been impressed. It lacked the usual brute strength tactics that demons of Hastur's level and skill usually performed. But then again, he had learned a thing or two from dealing with Crowley...and watching Ligur sizzle into a puddle of goo. It was amazing how much plotting and researching the Duke from Hell had done to insure the results he wanted. The demon had referenced and cross-referenced enough home catalogues and had narrowed down his product with such precision that any man with a housewife would have been proud. 

The Slant/Fin Ultraviolet Germ-Free Warm Mist Humidifier, Model #GF-300 was quite possibly the sleekest humidifier on the current market. It's long lasting durability as well as its rather attractive see-through blue-tinted plastic water holder and lack of a noisy fan had made it a favorite amongst consumers. But Hastur had ultimately chosen this particular brand for its promise that it could spread a large supply of water into a fine, undetectable mist in the air. It also boasted its mist to be completely germ free. Not that Hastur cared much about that. It wasn't germs that could kill a demon. 

It took Walter the estimated ten minutes to put together the rather simple looking contraption. And another twenty minutes to read through the instructions to get a ball-park idea of how a humidifier worked. He had never been very good with electronics. Finally, he felt confident enough to try. With the instructions still in one hand, Walter pulled off the Model #GF-300's water supply cover. As he reached up from where he sat to take hold of the full glass jar still sitting on the windowsill, Walter's small eyes darted back to the instructions page and remained observing the conveniently drawn cartoon of a plump hand pouring water into the small plastic tank. 

As his fingertips brushed against the smooth jar, Walter thought with some relief and happiness that it all looked straightforward. Not complex like most modern machines. His rather happy thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he suddenly couldn't feel the glass jar at his fingertips anymore. This realization was quickly followed by his ears picking up the sound of a large crash. 

He had dropped the glass jar. 

Sitting in shock, Walter stared down at the several shards of glass that now glittered dangerously next to him where the jar had shattered. Its contents, once neatly held together in a neat container was spreading at a distressing pace all over the wooden floor of the apartment. 

He had dropped the glass jar. 

There were mild, meek people in the world that surprised their colleagues in times of stress or pressure. Usually, these were the ones you expected to crack when say a fire broke out or when someone began to choke at the dinner table. But to everyone's shock, these looked over, ridiculed, bullied individuals would shine through and expose themselves to be true heroes. Level-headed, intelligent, and resourceful. 

Walter was not one of these people. 

But being a failure most of his life, Walter was not so ill-experienced that his brain did not automatically begin to try and think of ways out of this mess. But being a natural pessimist, all he saw were the options he could NOT do. He didn't have time to run to a church now. This apartment, conveniently for any demonic dweller was several miles away from the nearest church. Walter had had to change two lines in the Underground and then walk for ten minutes to get here. As the water began to spread out further and even hit Walter's thigh, he began to panic. The kind of panic that made a person black out for a moment.

Dark spots danced across his eyes as his stomach now filled with ice. Spots were soon replaced with visions of what Hastur would do to him. He had failed. But Walter was used to failure. He might not have minded it too much except that he had never failed a demon before and he had a feeling the consequences of this mistake would be a shade harsher than what he was used to. 

Panic soon gave away to desperate hope. A hope that men, armed with only a slingshot standing against a fully loaded missile tank grasped on to. The hope of the near insane. Still, it got Walter to stand up. He forced his feet to work and take his body to the pristine kitchen. Working now at a near feverish pace, Walter threw open drawers, desperately looking for a cloth or sponge. Opening up the cabinets under the sink, he found a full set of cleaning supplies and an unopened package of sponges. He took the package and ripped it open like a starving man to a bag of crisps. 

Skidding down to his hands and knees, Walter barely noticed the smaller bits of glass bite into his knees as he began to soak up the remaining holy water from the wooden floor using a bright neon green sponge. He wrung the foamy piece over the humidifier's tank and felt small inklings of hope as he watched the water dribble into the plastic tank. Walter mopped and squeezed and scrubbed in a vain effort to get as much of the spilt water rescued as possible. But in the end, even he could see the amount of water saved was below the minimum line needed to make the machine work. 

Walter looked at his watch. He was running out of time. Grappling onto his last vain crazy man's hope, he rushed back to the kitchen and located a lovely crystal cut glass. Taking better care this time, he filled it with tap water. He didn't want to think about how much this error would jeopardize the task at hand. Surely as long as the water was *partly* holy water....

Refusing to go any further in his thinking, Walter poured three thirds of the glass' contents into the humidifier's tank. Working now at a mechanical level, Walter pushed the cover back on, plugged in the small contraption and pushed the 'on' button. As promised, there was hardly a humming sound as the machine happily got to work. 

Walter stuffed the plastic wrappings the machine came in back into the medium sized box. Adrenaline still pumped through his body as he used his bare hands to pick up the larger pieces of the jar's broken glance and toss them into the box as well. He even took the time to dry the used crystal glass, determined to at least to orderly from here on out. Taking the box under his arm again to dispose of in a bin far from this apartment, Walter spared a glance back at the humidifier. 

It seemed to be doing its job quite well. 

Walter slipped out, closing the door firmly behind him. Inside, as the humidifier cheerfully went on, demonstrating how it deserved to be a number one product, Crowley's plants soaked in the new air, appreciatively. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don't forget the FEEDBACK!!


	5. Electronic Age

Here's the next part. As always, feedback is appreciated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Around the time Walter scurried out of Crowley's apartment, leaving the humidifier to spread its holy mist, the aforementioned demon was unwrapping a box of his own. 

"It's perfect for your needs," he explained to Aziraphale, who was staring rather doubtfully at the small machine Crowley unpacked. "It'll give you about eight seconds to get to the phone if you actually want to talk to the person. And if not, you can just let this take a message."

"Isn't eight seconds awfully short for a person to leave a message?" inquired the angel, examining the cardboard the answering machine had come in. 

"That's the point."

"I'm still not sure about this."

"It's the simplest model on the market, angel," Crowley insisted. "Look, they've been around for decades now. Not knowing how to use one...it's starting to get pathetic."

Aziraphale gave a resigned sigh and nodded. It was true. He had been ever so much more happy back in the days when Crowley had been the only one to ever give him a ring. Now, it seemed that despite his best efforts, his bookshop was becoming known and more callers were contacting him. Both book buyers and land buyers alike. He needed some sort of buffer. 

"Besides," continued Crowley as he searched for an appropriate plug. "Weren't you the one who said you wanted to try new things since we barely averted the world ending?" 

"Yes, well...I was thinking more along the lines of traveling or...or..backgammon."

"Trust me, this is a lot less dangerous," assured the demon as he quickly perused through the instructions. 

Aziraphale smiled slightly at the flippant way Crowley said that. Trust him. He wondered if it even dawned on the demon that trust was supposed to be an impossibility between them. He doubted his counterpart thought about that. As the centuries went by, Aziraphale had begun to see that Crowley was the type to act first and question himself later. It was one of the things that made the demon rather likable to the angel. He didn't sit around and dissect the logistics of situations to see if it fit rules and regulations, which had been a popular practice in Heaven. 

They had both been more rigid in their positions around the time God's earth had begun. But somewhere along the line, even before their agreement was reached, Aziraphale had found himself liking Crowley. The demon was certainly impossible in many respects but he wasn't the paragon of strictness, which was something Aziraphale had grown tired of in his position. 

"It's like...like...walking," Aziraphale had once stated during a heavy drinking session with Crowley. 

"Walking? Whad'ya mean?" 

"Heaven. You've got to walk those..." Aziraphale had thought carefully about his choice of words. He knew he had a point. "Eggs!" he had finally cried in triumph, pounding a fist on the table, sending Crowley's crystal glasses clinking. "You've got to walk those eggs!" he summarized. 

"What? Eggs? Like dogs?" Crowley had frowned, trying to use his own drunken brain to make some sense of Aziraphale's pronouncement. 

"What?"

"Walk eggs?"

"Can't walk eggs," Aziraphale had muttered into his newly filled glass. "S'no legs."

"But...Heaven..s'like..walking...."  
  


"Shells," Aziraphale threw out in an effort to be helpful. "Like shells. Walking on shells."

Crowley's frown had deepened as he regarded is half-empty drink, ordering it to refill as he didn't feel adventurous enough to try and make a grab for the bottle. "Eggshells?" he stabbed.

"Exactly."

They had abandoned the topic and had gone back to finishing off Crowley's cabinet supply.

But Aziraphale knew what he had meant. Heaven meant you had to be careful. Careful, quiet, and soft-spoken. It made the place bloody dull at times. Earth was much more interesting. Earth with its group of always surprising human inhabitants, their music, their literature, their food, and Crowley. Crowley always managed to put some sort of interesting challenge or situation for the day. 

"Right," Crowley interrupted his thoughts as he settled the black answering machine on his counter. It was black and sleek, almost like a miniature of the Bentley. And it looked completely out of place in Aziraphale's bookshop. "You've got rewind, fast forward, play and stop," instructed the demon, pointing to each respective button. "This, is your record button for your outgoing message."

"My...?"

"The recording you always mistake for the person actually answering the phone."

"Oh. I see."

Crowley hovered his finger over the button. "You ready?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat a few times before giving a tentative nod. Crowley pressed the button.

BEEP

A silence lasted over twenty seconds before the demon pressed stop. "Aziraphale, your outgoing message can't be muffled traffic sounds."

"But what am I supposed to say?" 

"Anything you like. Say you're not here. Say you can't come to the phone. Say you're off wanking, whatever you want," waved Crowley, impatiently. He held his finger over the button again. "Ready?"

"It's a lot of pressure."

"Oh, for Hell's sake, just TALK!"

BEEP

"Hello....you've..reached...ahhh.....sorry..." Crowley pressed stop and gave the angel a look. "I couldn't decide whether to say my name or the name of the shop," he explained, apologetically. "But I've got it. Let's try again."

BEEP

"Hello, you've reached Mainly Books." Aziraphale finished, looking slightly relieved. Leaning against the counter, Crowley raised an expectant eyebrow. "What?"

Crowley pressed stop. "Angel, look, the point of an answering machine is to make people think you're not in. You can't just say whom they've called. Nine times out of ten, these people KNOW whom they've called. Try it again."

BEEP

After six more tries, Aziraphale was certain that the thread of the tape was going to break along with his counter at the way Crowley seemed to be hitting it every time they had to stop. 

"It's a lot harder than one would think," Aziraphale protested. 

Slamming a fist down on the record button, Crowley spoke into the machine. "You've reached Mainly Books, a used bookshop. I repeat, a used bookshop.  Check your number to make sure you've dialed right. If you have, we're not coming to the phone. Leave a message if you think that'll help. Cheers."

BEEP

"You're quite good at that," remarked Aziraphale, somewhat dryly as he listened to the acerbic outgoing message being replayed. 

"It's my job," stated Crowley, pushing the instructions sheet towards Aziraphale. "I'll catch you later, angel. After an afternoon of this, I need to cause some headaches. Or get a drink. Think I'll do both."

"You can stay around here, if you like," offered Aziraphale. 

Eyeing a man in a suit approaching the bookshop, Crowley shook his head with a slightly malicious grin on his face. "Nah. I'm going home. Time I watered my plants, anyway." As he began to exit, he opened the door and let the suit enter. "Hope you've contacted your mother in the past few days," he remarked to the young man entering the door, who only looked puzzled. Crowley grinned over at Aziraphale who only gave his best disapproving look back to the demon. "Enjoy your day, Aziraphale," he replied, pleasantly.

On his way past the suit's identically hideous car, Crowley waved a hand and listened with some satisfaction as the air in the tires hissed out. Sliding into his Bentley, the demon headed for home. 

Several miles away, The Slant/Fin Ultraviolet Germ-Free Warm Mist Humidifier, Model #GF-300 continued to pump out its near invisible mist. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yep, FEEDBACK PLEASE! 


	6. Hazard

Here's the next bit. As always, feedback is appreciated and feeds the author.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shortly after Crowley had sauntered out his door, Aziraphale had steadied himself for another onslaught of irritating threats about his bookshop going up in flames lest he sign it away. But to his pleasant surprise, the man had really just been after a book. Aziraphale's mood had cheered up even more when he had to tell the man that he did not stock books that were published after the 1890's, other than a small collection of children's books. 

Giving the disappointed man a cheerful wave, he smiled as the door closed with a small jingle. Turning back to the now peacefully quiet shop, Aziraphale decided to make himself a hot chocolate and get back to a book he had started. 

It was around the time he was taking a third sip from the steaming mug that he heard his phone ring. Letting it go on for a few seconds, Aziraphale decided to test out the new machine.

++++++++++++++++++

Around the time Aziraphale was showing the customer to the door, the Bentley skidded in a slightly dangerous manner on the slick asphalt as Crowley slammed on the brakes, swerving it into the available spot just outside of his flat. Rain was coming down at a faster pace now and as darkness was rapidly descending. The streets were empty of pedestrians, the only signs of life now being marked only by the warm looking lights shining through the curtained windows. 

Getting out, Crowley walked lazily towards the front door of the building. If anyone had been close enough to him, they would have noticed the rain somehow missing the demon. As he walked up the stairs, the demon stomped his feet somewhat excessively. He could feel the blood pressure rise of the new tenant that lived a floor below him. After the untimely and no doubt frightening interruption Hastur and Ligur had provided that one time, the little old lady who had used to live under Crowley had moved out. 

The space was now occupied by a bodybuilder who Crowley suspected had a brain the size of a rutabaga and probably didn't even know what a rutabaga was. On the first day the demon had met him, he had deemed the tenant an insult to his talents to even tempt. Which meant Crowley would just annoy him to tatters. Practically hearing the uncreative swearing bouncing around in the tenant's hollow head, Crowley grinned and continued his journey up. 

Ironically, Crowley's mind had wandered to Ligur. Or rather, the stain still on his floor that had once been Ligur. Soon after realizing that Adam had returned everything to the way it was, Crowley had attempted to remove the splotch by his usual methods of thinking it away. But it had stayed, as dark and as disgusting looking as ever. The demon had been meaning to ask Aziraphale's opinion on why that would be but he always tended to forget. Crowley dwelled on some reasons why as he waved open his door. 

In most chemistry classes, when using chemicals that contained bromine or sulfuric acid, a ventilation hood was vital. This was to avoid anyone breathing in the fumes and causing respiratory problems. In the more advanced world of chemistry, people handled more dangerous chemicals, such as benzene. In cases such as this, a ventilation hood was mandatory as the inhaling of such chemicals would cause one's lungs to seize up and ultimately melt into a useless mass of shredded tissue. 

The first thing Crowley noticed was that his flat felt strangely damp. As if he had been relocated to a tropical area. Idly, he wondered if he had accidentally left a window open, allowing rain to come in. But then he realized that was impossible as he had yet to ever open a single window in his place since the day he had moved in. 

And then, Crowley breathed in what was most likely the demonic equivalent to a human inhaling a lungful of benzene. 

The pain was excruciating. In all his existence, Crowley had never felt such acute physical agony before. Usually when his human body was killed, he felt the usual tingle or at worst a sharp sting. But nothing, nothing could even compare to this. Reflexively, he coughed and soon was gagging on the lancing air. Acid seemed to be working its way through the inside of his chest as well as on the skin that covered his face and hands. Shock and a moment of complete panic sent the demon staggering back from his door, the only part of his body not in agony being his hair and eyes, still protected by his shades. 

Gathering enough sense, Crowley ordered himself to stop breathing and move as fast as possible away from his door. The first he was able to accomplish with little trouble, not that it did him much good now. The second task was proving to be a much harder job. With a mighty jerk, the demon propelled his body from the wall he had been leaning on towards the direction of the stairs. He overshot his mark and succeeded in flinging himself down the entire flight. He didn't really mind each step colliding with some bone in his body. It took some of the attention away from what felt like someone raking at his insides with a hot poker. 

*Get up!* Crowley ordered his body, now sprawled on the bottom floor. Through the ringing in his head, Crowley could vaguely make out the sound of the bodybuilder swearing up a storm from behind his door. The world was beginning to tilt and it seemed likely that what little consciousness Crowley had left, he was going to lose it quite soon. 

Using various mental threats to his body parts, the demon inched his way to the door and pulled it open. Rain blasted him in the face and Crowley breathed in the damp London air in vain hopes it would clear whatever was strangling him. It didn't. The scalding pain still remained, though Crowley could breath in as deeply as he wished. Blinking against the rain, he spotted the shape of the Bentley. 

Crowley landed heavily on the wet sidewalk; his feet gave out a few steps before the car.  His shades slipped off his pale face and clattered softly on the ground, exposing the red-rimmed yellow eyes. Desperately, he waved a hand towards the car door. The Bentley obediently opened, exposing the car phone Crowley had been after. It tantalizingly sat a few feet away from the demon, making it impossible for him to reach it. 

*Oh, bloody hell! Don't pass out now, you fucking prat!* Crowley shouted to himself as his car phone divided into two in his wavering vision. Using the last of his reserves, the drenched demon concentrated as hard as his mind would allow, pushing back the waves of burning torture assaulting his body. After a few seconds, the car phone fell off its handle and landed on the car seat, lighting up. 

As Crowley let his head drop back onto the cement, he gritted his teeth against the crashing darkness long enough to send his last orders to the phone. *Call Aziraphale.* The last thing he heard was the sound of his own voice saying something about a used bookshop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MUHAHAHAHA! Cliffhanger! 


	7. Some Assistance

I'm just milking the quote, unquote suspense for all its worth, aren't I? *evil*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stirring his mug of hot chocolate, Aziraphale listened as Crowley's pre-recorded voice finished and the beep sounded off. Three seconds went by with nothing but complete silence. Frowning, the angel stared at the black machine whose tape wheels were whirling, recording the silence. 

*That's odd. Usually people left a message or hung up, didn't they?* 

Aziraphale distinctly remembered that part of the crash tutorial regarding answering machines Crowley had given him a few days ago. Two more seconds passed and the person on the other line had yet to say anything or hang up. Reaching over, Aziraphale took up his phone. "Hello?" he said into the receiver and heard his voice come out of the answering machine in stereo. In the slightly flustered manner of someone who was very uncomfortable using modern machinery, Aziraphale wincingly pressed the answering machine's stop button. The wheels stopped rolling but the phone line remained open.

"Hello?" Aziraphale repeated into the receiver. Straining his hearing, he could make out the faint sound of rain. "Hello? Is someone there?" he inquired. Not being a stranger to prank calls, the angel knew this wasn't someone just having a go at his phone line. Usually by now there would sounds of someone's muffled laughter or someone asking him the usual dull prank call question. "Who is this?" The angel's frown deepened as waited a few more seconds in his own silence to see if the other person would hang up. The line remained open.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale tried, thinking of the only person who would be calling him not regarding a book purchase. "Is that you? Are you playing a joke or something? Crowley?" The usually comforting sound of rain falling was beginning to make Aziraphale nervous. "Crowley, if this is you, it isn't funny!" Silence.

The angel was close to hanging up when he finally heard something else mixing into the rain falling. 

"Excuse me?" inquired a woman's voice. "Sir? Are you alright?"

"Hello?" Aziraphale spoke into the phone, relieved that someone was around on the other end. "Hello? Miss?"

"Sir? You're getting soaked." The voice sounded further away now.

Realizing that whoever the new arrival was, she wasn't talking to him, Aziraphale spoke at a louder volume into the receiver. "Miss? Miss, please pick up the phone. Hello? Miss! The phone!" he shouted. 

"What the-? Oh." There was the sound of some rustling and clicking. A car horn that the angel recognized as the Bentley's suddenly went off and Aziraphale heard the woman let out a startled exclamation. "Hello?" spoke the woman, her voice now clear on the other line. 

"Hello, miss? Can you hear me?" asked Aziraphale, hoping to cast some light on the matter. 

"Of course I can hear you. I've got the phone right up to my ear," replied the stranger. "Do you know anyone who owns a Bentley?" she asked now. "Because he's lying on the sidewalk, getting drenched."

"Lying on the—what?" 

"I can't get him to wake up," said the woman, sounding more annoyed than concerned. "I wouldn't worry, he's breathing. But he's liable to catch his death of cold lying around in the rain."

"Can you try again? Try and wake him up?" asked Aziraphale, worryingly. He knew Crowley liked napping but surely the demon would know better than to fall asleep in the rain. And his body had obviously not been killed, according to the woman. He could hear some shuffling sounds and the muffled sound of the complying woman's voice attempting to rouse Crowley. 

Pulling the phone closer to her mouth, she spoke, sounding a notch more concerned now. "You know..I think I best call for an ambulance. He's not looking all that well."

"No, wait!" Aziraphale ordered. "Wait..wait..just let me...." his voice trailed off as his fingers tightened their grip on his phone. He had a rather unpleasant sensation dissipating throughout his body. Something that reminded him of the way he felt during the near apocalypse. "Let me think," he said, almost to himself. 

"Sir?"

"Wait...wait..can you wait there? Where are you? I'll come straightaway."

Automatically, the woman listed off the street Aziraphale recognized as where Crowley's flat was located. "I really think I should send for--"

"No, I'm coming! I'm coming!" interrupted the angel urgently, already groping behind him to yank his coat that had been slung over the back of the chair. "Tell him I'm coming."

Dropping the receiver back on the cradle, Aziraphale didn't even realize that for the first time since the invention of the phone, he had hung up on someone. Rushing towards the door, the angel barely remembered to gesture the lights off as he hurried out. The rain was now coming down in blankets. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Insert usual plea for feedback here.


	8. Friendly Fire

Well, here's the next part. As always, feedback is appreciated and inspires me to write more!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walter went home and tidied up his apartment. He tended to do that when he was nervous, a habit he had picked up from his father. The day the elder Kettich had been sacked, he had gone home and cleaned the house from top to bottom. Walter's mother had only had to look at the now reflective kitchen floor once before bursting into tears. While the loss of his job had pushed Walter's father to make the floor clean enough to eat off of, Walter's worries led to a kitchen floor sanitary enough for surgery to be performed on it. 

It was during his third round of window washing that Hastur appeared. 

"Was the job completed?" asked the demon.

"Hello! Yes! Yes, it was! Bloody good and simple, too!" Walter replied, doing his best not to sound hysterical. 

Hastur narrowed his eyes, causing them to look smaller than usual. "There were no complications?" 

"No! Not at all! What makes you ask that?!" Walter nearly cried out, clutching onto the bottle Windex like a crucifix. Either way, it did little to help him as Hastur advanced. Walter had never weighed much, but now that all his weight was hanging on his neck as Hastur grabbed his throat and held him up dangling against the wall, it felt like he weighed a ton. 

"What did you DO?" demanded the enraged demon. He tightened his fingers as an addendum to his question. 

"It still had some holy water left!" choked Walter under Hastur's grip. "I swear to you! The jar! It just slipped! But I did put some of it in! It would still work!"

After an agonizing moment, Hastur released Walter and turned his back on him. Landing in an inelegant heap on the floor, the smaller man began to cough, clutching at his throat. 

*Fuck!* Hastur swore, silently. He was too angry to even kill Walter. There had been so much hope and care riding on this and now it had gone completely pear-shaped because of one stupid mortal. He had disobeyed all of Hell and orders given to him to get that snake and now it had been bunked. Rage built inside of the demon as he forgot himself and his shape altogether. *Never send a human to do fucking anything*

Hastur felt his human form begin to flex. Squeezing tighter into himself and expanding outward. Turning around, he could see the naked fear in Walter's eyes as the human crouched in the corner. The fear soon manifested itself into a scream as Hastur's human body shattered like a glass sculpture to a hammer. Each piece of Hastur hit the floor and became a small wriggling body. Walter managed to let out one more scream before all several hundred maggot-like pieces shot towards him. 

Two minutes later, Walter's eyes opened. They traveled down to his hands, examining them carefully. Moving them behind his waist, they undid the strings of the small apron Walter had been wearing. 

Walter's mouth smiled. 

+++++++++++++++++++++

Crowley's recently appointed sitter had been close to turning on the car phone to summon an ambulance when a drenched Aziraphale rounded the corner. The woman, who the angel now was able to attach "slightly overweight with hand-cum-shopping bag with plastic baggie over dyed hair" to the voice, was sitting half inside the Bentley as protection from the downpour. 

The woman's slightly plump legs were hanging out of the driver's side of the car. She quickly got to her feet as she saw the dripping blond man jog towards her. "Where is he?" asked Aziraphale as soon as he got in earshot. 

The look of slight annoyance on the middle aged woman's pasty face turned to one of slight shock at the tone. She gestured vaguely to the back door of the Bentley on her side that was also open. To her credit, she had managed to drag Crowley's dead weight into the backseat. Climbing into the Bentley, awkwardly, Aziraphale took in his counterpart's form. 

Outwardly, Crowley looked fine. His breathing was regular, which wasn't that important to demon and his face didn't look any paler than usual. But there was something. Crouching next to him, Aziraphale could easily sense something terribly wrong with the demon. 

"Crowley?" he said, softly. "Crowley!" he repeated, more insistently as the demon remained unresponsive. Aziraphale gently shook his shoulder.

"I've tried that," supplied the plastic hatted woman. "If all the jostling I did getting him into the car didn't wake him up-" A groan from Crowley interrupted her explanation. 

Turning his attention back to the demon, Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley's shoulder and brushed his other free hand over the dark hair. Shifting himself, Aziraphale effectively hid Crowley's face from the woman's view. "Crowley? Can you hear me?"

Crowley blinked his eyes open. The pain-glazed yellow slits looked confused, staring up at Aziraphale. The demon's breathing changed, sounding more forced. "Ohhh....fuck..." Crowley swore, dispassionately. It felt like he was breathing glass. 

"What's happened?" Aziraphale asked. Concern flooded the blue eyes and shine through the thin lenses of the rain splattered glasses. 

Before Crowley could answer, the woman piped up again. "Is he alright now?" she inquired, trying to look past Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Lie still. Don't worry," assured the angel quietly to Crowley. He quickly turned back around to the curious woman. "Yes, he will be now, thank you...."

"Susan," supplied the plump woman. "It's a good thing I came back this way for my umbrella. Do you know what's wrong with him? Has he been drinking? It's an awfully bad habit," she prattled. 

"Susan, thank you," Aziraphale stopped her. Pressed for time, he waved his hand across her face and her face went slightly blank. Had Crowley not been insensible, he would have been proud. Willing a lovely red parasol into existence, he handed it to her. "Keep dry, madame," said the angel, forcing a smile.

Glancing at the new object in her hand, Susan blinked before an uncertain smile of her own appeared on her face. Her clothes, including the plastic bag on her head were now completely dry. "Yes...yes, I think I will," she replied, dazed. Opening the outdated rain gear, she began to walk away, having forgotten about the Bentley or the man in the back with whom she had stayed with for nearly half an hour. 

Climbing back into the car, Aziraphale moved his arm across the back of Crowley's shoulders to try and sit him up. Groaning at the movement, the demon clamped a hand over Aziraphale's sleeve. "I need to get you to your place," said Aziraphale. 

"No!" Crowley managed to gasp out. He pulled harder at the sleeve. "Don't..."

"Your place? Is something there?" asked Aziraphale, urgently. "Crowley! Stay awake! Tell me, is whoever attacked you up there?" 

Crowley shook his head, regretting the move shortly afterwards. "No...it'sssss holy water," he managed. "Breathed it...."

Aziraphale froze. The look of momentary horror that passed his face remained unchecked as he looked down at Crowley. He had seen a demon be doused in holy water once. Once. And that had been enough of an experience. His attention was snapped back to the present as Crowley hissed another curse and curled closer into a wet ball, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. 

Galvanized into mental action, the angel quickly came up with the most obvious solution. He was an angel. He'd just heal Crowley. He'd done it countless amounts of times with humans. This would work. 

In the back of his mind, a small, strictly Heaven-biding voice reproached him, sprouting off things about Crowley being the Enemy and about the rules against healing beings that were technically, evil. Aziraphale did the mental equivalent of drop kicking the voice into the far wall. 

"Don't worry. It'll be alright," Aziraphale assured again, feeling relieved himself at having a plan. "I'll heal you. Just relax. You'll be fine."

Gathering up the agonized demon, Aziraphale shifted in the Bentley's back seat and pillowed Crowley's body with his own. Wrapping his arms around the tense form, Aziraphale concentrated and began. He was interrupted half a second later as Crowley gasped and began to writhe in the embrace. "Crowley, lie still!" Aziraphale ordered, grappling to keep from dropping the demon.

"No! Oh, fuck, stop!" cried Crowley, desperately trying to break free of Aziraphale's arms. "Please, STOP!" Hearing the panic and torture in Crowley's voice, Aziraphale let go, confusion filling his eyes. 

Looking at the now passed out demon, Aziraphale felt a coldness of ice spreading inside his stomach. If anything, Crowley now looked worse, much worse. Even through his layers of tweed, Aziraphale could feel a sudden heat radiating from Crowley's unconscious form. Tentatively, he reached out and put a hand on the feverish forehead. 

"Oh, by all means," interrupted a dry voice. "If you want to have roasted demon on your hands, literally. Do try healing him again."

Aziraphale's head shot up from looking at Crowley to see a dark-haired man standing just in front of the Bentley's open doors. He wore a dark coat with a hooded shirt and a surly expression. 

"Metatron?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FEEDBACK! We all love FEEDBACK! FEEDBACK makes the world go round......


	9. Crusade Charging

Here's a bit more. 

I still have NO idea how long this fic will be. I know the ending up in my head (not the safest place for it to be) but how long it'll take me to get there is beyond me at the moment. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Metatron?"

With little ceremony or even a verbal reply, the Metatron lifted his long fingers and gave a sharp snap in the wet London air. In the next second, Aziraphale found himself sitting back in his bookshop. Or more specifically, he was sitting in his small living area above the bookshop, surrounded by old books he had been meaning to repair. He looked dazed at the Metatron, unused to immediate teleportation. The seraphim sat at a work-bench across from him, brushing off dust from his shoulder.

"Good God, don't you ever take a duster to this place?" demanded the dark-haired angel. "It's like mutated dust bunnies in here."

Aziraphale looked around the area with momentarily panicked eyes. "Where's Crowley?"

"Calm down. I put him in your bedroom. Be more comfortable that way," indicated the Metatron. 

Without waiting, Aziraphale got up from his seat and opened the door to his bedroom. On the plain quilts scattered across the mattress, Crowley lay sprawled, still passed out and soaked from the rain. It was then Aziraphale realized he was still drenched himself. Blinking, he dried himself off and moved to do the same with the demon when he heard the Metatron speak behind him. 

"Ah, ah. I really wouldn't risk that right now, if I were you. It's just his clothes but I'd rather you not take the chance and end up with messy puddle of former demon on your bed," warned the Metatron.

Turning around, Aziraphale looked over at his supposed superior with half anxious and half almost frustrated eyes. He closed the door softly. "Why wasn't I able to heal him?" he demanded. "It should have worked."

"Coz it's not his human body that's in trouble. He breathed in holy water. Nothing happens to humans when they breathe in holy mist. Other than maybe an asthmatic," added the Metatron. "But being a demon, it's probably doing a job on his demonic insides. Like hot water to butter, I'd imagine."

The horrific imagery, delivered with unwavering indifference provoked a sudden rush of unangelic thoughts from the normally tranquil Aziraphale. He felt an urge to take up his former momentary lapse again and swear at the Metatron. But he pursued his desperate need to gain information and questioned the droll seraphim instead. "But I can cure myself. Why can't I cure Crowley? Human or no? I should be able to."

The Metatron raised an eyebrow. "Are we going to go down this path already? Because if we are, I might remind you that you're technically not allowed to even *try* and cure him." At the words, Aziraphale began to get the same sinking feeling he got the time he had told the Metatron about the location of the Anti-Christ. "I'm not sure if it's slipped your mind in the past several millennia you've been down here, Aziraphale," continued the seraphim. "But he's the Enemy. A demon? You know what that is, don't you?"

"But..."

"Yes?"

Looking at his expectant superior, Aziraphale bit the inside of his bottom lip in a nervous habit. There really was no way for him to explain this. What was he supposed to say? That yes, over the past several millennia he had been on earth, he had come to see Crowley as a friend more so than an enemy? That if he really thought about it, Crowley was the first true friend he had ever really had? 

*Oh, hang it* thought the angel. Not bothering to answer the last quizzical look from the Metatron, Aziraphale reopened the door to his bedroom and went to check on Crowley again. 

The demon was still sleeping, the weight of his wet form quickly dampening the quilts on the bed. Aziraphale carefully settled himself next to his friend, trying to minimize the jostling. He tried to think. When someone used holy water against a demon, they meant business. It was a serious move, mainly because there was nothing to reverse the destructive process. 

*But there has to be a way* thought the angel, stubbornly. 

"It'll only get worse," stated the Metatron, having followed Aziraphale into the bedroom. The seraphim leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his coat pockets. He watched the other angel tentatively reach towards the demon but draw back in fear of causing further pain. "Go on," he said. "Just don't try and cure him. It's the holy water inside. Your healing skills are only flaring up the divine in the water. It's strengthening its powers."

Aziraphale's eyes filled with regret. He had not known that his attempt to heal Crowley would only make the pain worse. But he felt guilty nonetheless. Not daring to try and dry him off using his powers, the angel unbuttoned the demon's shirt, not caring that the Metatron stood just behind up. Working the drenched clothing off of the still form, Aziraphale noticed the dark bruises that stained the pale skin. Normal bruises. The kind anyone would get from bumping into things or in Crowley's case, falling down a flight of stairs. 

But above the bruises on the demon's ribs, more near his shoulders were long, near black streaks. They resembled unnaturally dark bruises but the angel knew those were because of him. The streaks marked the area where his arms had wrapped around Crowley, trying to heal him and succeeding in only bringing him closer to his demise. 

Pulling his eyes away from the evidence of his mistake, Aziraphale stared mournfully at demon's pale face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, guilt and regret filling him all the more. Aziraphale gently touched the bruises instead. But unable to heal them, the gesture made him feel even more helpless. 

"Aziraphale." The Metatron spoke from somewhere behind him but he only continued in undressing Crowley and finding a dry blanket to wrap him in. "Aziraphale," repeated the seraphim, more insistently. 

Smoothing down the covers over Crowley, Aziraphale guessed that if the demon were conscious, he'd be giving him grief about mothering him. With a faint glimmer of hope, the angel hoped Crowley would wake up soon and feel well enough to say something acerbic. 

"Oi." A hand clamped down on Aziraphale's shoulder. It was surprisingly gentle, despite it commanding the angel to turn around and face the seraphim. The dark-haired angel looked at the blond for a moment with an unfamiliar expression Aziraphale could not place before speaking. "You've got other problems."

"What?" 

"I didn't just show up so you'd stop your administrations," stated the Metatron, sounding like his old self. "It's bloody hard getting into a human body. No, there's something else that needs your immediate attention."

Aziraphale frowned, feeling a bit dazed. "What are you talking about? What other problem?"

"The other problem that goes by the name of Walter Kettich."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FEEDBACK as usual!


	10. Alternate Plans

Here's the next part. It's a bit longer and it kind of moves "the plot" along a bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting in Walter Kettich's kitchen, Hastur flexed his fingers. Or rather, he flexed Walter's fingers. Looking down, the demon admired the newly acquired fingers. The ten digits were spread before him ready to do whatever he wanted. It felt nice. Better than nice. It felt powerful. Smiling, Hastur decided to try an experiment. 

After some rummaging, the demon located a moderately sharp knife from one of Walter's drawers. Hastur contemplated looking for a chopping block but decided there really was no need. Settling Walter's left hand on the kitchen counter, he only paused for one second before bringing the knife down on Walter's pinkie. The small member flew off the counter like a sloppily cut carrot. There was almost no pain. Perhaps a slight tingle but nothing compared to the pain Walter would have felt had he been in his body. 

Hastur smiled again. *Well, that's rather convenient*

Taking over Walter's body had been easy. Much easier than any of his colleagues let on. From the way beings like Azrael spoke, Hastur had always believed that possession was a trial, something one had to put a lot of effort into in order for it to be a success. But Walter had been easy. In fact, Hastur found it much easier to occupy Walter's body than the one that Hell had assigned him. 

Hell.

Hastur reminded himself that a demon didn't claw his way up to being a Duke Down There for nothing. He had a Ten Year Plan, after all. He had planned for retirement at a certain time and had been organizing just how he would do this as well as gain a position that would garter him a good amount of respect. It had all been neatly figured out. He'd play by the rules, never stray from his duties and remember that despite the fact he was a bastard (or perhaps because he was), Lucifer was the boss. And one who should be heeded. 

But that had all changed after the events concerning the Anti-Christ. Those events ended with Ligur being reduced to a pile of charred black bits and Hastur coming to the unfortunate conclusion that one didn't get anywhere by playing by the rules. His report back to the Dark Council during that time had been an embarrassment. One that had only increased as he had to explain that he was half an hour late in reporting back due to being trapped in an answering machine, courtesy of Anthony J. Crowley. 

But Hastur could deal with being snickered at. He could even cope with the punishment that had been given to him. What he could not stand was the fact that the Dark Council saw fit to let that snake off without a single reprimand. They had not explained why. Only that the demise of Ligur at Crowley's hands was an inconvenience. That had been the final straw for Hastur.

Not that he had ever been fond of Ligur in anyway. He was just another fellow worker who was easy to deal with as he had less brains than most others. But he hadn't deserved an end like that. No demon did. All except one who was low enough to use such methods. And that was Crowley. And what had Lucifer decided to do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Crowley was just left to continue as he pleased. No repercussions for breaking a veritable book of rules. Not even a reprimand. 

So, Hastur had seen fit to give Hell, its rules, and Lucifer himself the great "Fuck off!" And he planned. Planned a new plan that consisted of getting whatever satisfaction he wanted, regulations and rules be damned. And the only satisfaction he wanted was knowing that Crowley would be a pile of black bits, identical to the one Ligur became. Everything had gone quite well to the most part. 

Except Walter messing up and him taking over Walter's body. That hadn't really been part of his plan. 

It had really been Walter's own fault. Hastur had felt it in his right to take Walter's body as acquisition after the human's inability to follow the simplest instructions. But now that he was calmed down, the demon considered that yes, even a bit of holy water mixed in would at least cause Crowley some damaged. Perhaps even death. A nice, long slow death. If that were the case then Walter had actually done him a favor. Perhaps he had been a bit hasty in possessing his body.

But what was done was done. And now Hastur decided it was time to test out his new body. He found he rather liked it. It fit him better than he would have thought. And the idea that he was in an unauthorized body, no doubt royally pissing off the Dark Council only made his stay in Walter that much more enjoyable. Hastur knew he had crossed a certain line. So there was no use worrying about it now. He might as well enjoy the time he had. It seemed earth was full of more colors and smells than the demon had noticed when he had been in a Hell-assigned body. Through Walter's eyes, nose and ears, Hastur began to understand just why Crowley might have wanted to protect this pitiful planet. 

Wrapping a towel around the bleeding area, Hastur walked from the kitchen to one of Walter's windows and peered out its newly washed glass. The nighttime lights of London sparkled back at him, full of headlights, lamps by windows, and traffic stops. The demon gazed at the sight with a new appreciation. He never realized how big this one city could be. How full of life it was. Full of people. Full of victims.

Flexing his remaining fingers, Hastur decided it was time to check out the rest of the world with his new body.

+++++++++++++++++

"It's a point of great concern," stated the Metatron. "We've done the extensive background check. This fellow, Kettich...he's a guard at the British Museum, doesn't have a record, never even had a traffic violation. He's technically a Catholic but we don't really hold that against him by any means. He's a light body, as in useless. It doesn't make sense that he's suddenly gone off the radar."

Aziraphale frowned. "Radar?"

"Some bugger's gone off and possessed him," the Metatron clarified. "And there's no reason. Not as far as we can see."

"Why don't you ask Him?" inquired Aziraphale. The normally apologetic manner with which he usually gave suggestions to the Metatron was now replaced with a slightly wearied tone. "He's supposed to know everything, doesn't He?"

"What He does know is not really the issue here. The point is that whoever's gotten a hold of Kettich is most likely not working under Lucifer's orders. That's how the *other* incident nearly rolled about. If it's another renegade at work here, it's going to be a lot messier than usual. And that only means more innocent bystanders at risk."

"And I'd wager," continued the seraphim, sparing a glance down at Crowley. "That his recent tangle with holy water is not an unrelated incident."

Staring down at the demon's white face, Aziraphale noticed something different. The face. It was Crowley. It was the same face Hell continued to recycle to give to the demon years upon years whenever Crowley had the misfortune of getting killed or maimed. But the face now looked detached from the essence Aziraphale had always attributed to *Crowley*. As if something inside the body was disappearing. 

"He's fading," Aziraphale realized.

"It's a done deal with him," proclaimed the Metatron, not without a shred of sympathy. "It'll take bleeding longer but holy water gets the job done one way or another."

The other angel didn't bother to push back the sudden despair that filled him. It was true. It wouldn't matter if Crowley had been thrown into a pool of holy water in one go or just breathed in some of it. In the end, it would kill him. This was just a way for him to suffer longer before the inevitable end. 

The Metatron stared at Aziraphale's back as the angel remained sitting hunched over the unconscious demon. He fought back the urge to interrupt and force Aziraphale to hurry matters along. It wasn't that he didn't see the angel's position. After all, you could only know someone for so long before you got comfortable with seeing his face. But they were talking about a demon, for God's sake. An agent of Hell. That made things fairly clear for the Metatron in terms of how much sympathy he was prepared to doll out. 

Finally, after a few more minutes, Aziraphale turned from where he sat and looked at the Metatron with clear blue eyes. "What is it that I'm supposed to do?"

The seraphim sighed, glad that things were progressing. "Find Walter Kettich and get whoever took him over out of there. He's a free-roamer from what we know. Highly doubtful that Hell gives a toss then."

Aziraphale gave a short nod. "Fine. But I wish to speak with Him before I do."

The Metatron's relief was short-lived. "Speak with..."

"With God. I'd like to have a word with Him before I track down Kettich," said Aziraphale, quietly but firmly.

"Now, hang on," scowled the Metatron. "Is this going to be about him?" he demanded, freely pointing at Crowley. When Aziraphale didn't answer but looked mildly guilty as well as defiant, he knew his answer. "Oh, for the love of Christ! What is this? Are you planning on bartering with the Almighty?!"

Despite the outburst, Aziraphale remained looking rather passive and any anxiety that was in his eyes was in regards to Crowley alone. "I'd like to speak with God, please," he requested again. 

After a few choice words ran through the Metatron's mind, it dawned on the seraphim that it would only waste more time. Despite wanting to voice his opinion on the matter, he instead threw a final half disgusted, half irritated expression at Aziraphale before disappearing in a burst of flames to transfer the request.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, you know the drill: FEEDBACK means more story pretty soon!


	11. Agenda

The first thing Crowley was aware of was pain. Like two hot-iron chains crisscrossing over his chest. He felt a great desire to cough but feared it would jostle something inside of him and cause his entire frame to break like glass. Instead, he concentrated on trying to pretend the agony wasn't quite so intense. After a few minutes of some good effort and a bit of imagination, he had managed to channel it down to a level of pain that wouldn't drive him insane. After that, the demon began to notice his surroundings. 

*Soft. Warm. Bed. Right.*

"Crowley?"

*Aziraphale*

He recognized the angel's slightly anxious voice, though it sounded like he was hearing it through a few layers of thick cotton. Without dwelling on the pros and cons of the action, Crowley pulled his eyes open, which proved to be harder than he had expected. Aziraphale had been kind enough to close all the blinds in the room, drowning the area in complete darkness to protect Crowley's light-sensitive eyes. *Ah..good ol' angel* Crowley thought fondly. 

"Thanks," he attempted to say. Crowley hoped whatever sound came out of his mouth it bared some semblance to what he had intended to say. 

"Don't try and talk, Crowley. You sound terrible," ordered the angel, his mouth set in a concerned, grim line. The sight, for some reason, struck Crowley as incredibly amusing but he didn't dare venture to chuckle. Aziraphale smoothed out an invisible crinkle on the quilts that were wrapped around the demon. Crowley looked at him with tired but knowing eyes. 

"Y'motherin' me," he stated, sounding slightly disgusted. 

Aziraphale gave a short laugh, attempting to keep from sounding slightly hysterical. A bizarre hope filled the angel at the words. Somehow he could believe the end of Crowley was not a reality as long as the demon found the strength to be ornery. "Believe me, dear demon, you need it," he replied, giving Crowley a faint smile.

"Wasting..time," managed Crowley. 

Nodding, Aziraphale's expression sobered. "Don't worry. I've spoken with the Metatron. He's going to get me a meeting with Him. I'll have a word. We'll work something out. I'll hurry it along as soon as I get up there," he assured. 

Promising himself that he could have some rest if he would just cooperate for a little while longer, Crowley was able to get himself to shake his head slightly. "No...you're wasting YOUR time," he clarified. Seeing that he had gotten Aziraphale's attention, the demon pressed on. "End of the line," he stated, hoping he wouldn't have to explain what the term meant.

Aziraphale frowned, looking incredibly stubborn all of a sudden. "No, don't say that. We'll work something out."

"Holy water..."

"I know. But we'll work something out," insisted the angel, refusing to give in. "I'll have a word with Him. There has to be other options."

While Crowley was generally an optimist by some freak of ironical nature, having been virtually killed by breathing in holy water had made him feel slightly more cynical in the past few hours. What options were there?

"I'll insist something be done," stated Aziraphale, as if reading Crowley's thoughts. "This wasn't even sanctioned by Lucifer, according to the Metatron. Something else is going on, which means no one in authority wanted this to happen to you. They can fix it somehow."

The maddening surety in Aziraphale's tone made Crowley slightly sick. But then again, he might have been mistaking the feeling for just wanting to be sick in general at the moment. There was no way Lucifer would give a toss if he burnt to cinders. It would be good justified punishment anyway for doing the same to Ligur. And God? Well, the answer was fairly blaringly obvious to Crowley what his chances with God were at the moment. 

"Wasting your time," was all he repeated back to Aziraphale.

"Why must you be so cynical?" said the angel, attempting to press some levity on the situation. It would have worked had his voice not sounded so despairing and if Crowley had responded with his usual line of it being his job. But he didn't really feel up to it. 

Shifting uncomfortably in the long silence, Aziraphale plucked at the corner of one of the free quilts. "Crowley...I'm sorry for what I did earlier," he apologized. "I didn't realize what would happen if I tried to heal you."

The demon vaguely recalled the searing pain that had lanced through him. It had felt like something had been eating him from the inside out. Looking at the angel now, sitting next to him looking so meekly guilty and nervous, Crowley couldn't imagine that inside of that body lay such destructive powers, unintentional as they were. Crowley forced his shoulder to shrug. "No worries," he replied.

He stared up at the blue eyes that looked grateful and sad through the thin lenses for a moment and hoped for some odd reason that he made Aziraphale feel better. The angel tilted his head, slightly for a moment, as if hearing something in the next room. The azure eyes focused back on Crowley. 

"I have to go for a moment," he stated. "I have to have a word with God. But I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." Crowley more or less rolled his eyes at the statement but Aziraphale remained looking serious. "I do mean it. Please don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

Crowley wondered if he had managed to nod back in return. It seemed his body was cashing in the promise he had made earlier about getting some rest. In any case, it was getting a lot harder to ignore the pain that had been waiting so politely but impatiently in the background. So, he mercifully fell back asleep as Aziraphale gave him one last look before slipping out for his appointment.

++++++++++++++++++++

Hastur felt Walter weakly protest in the corner as he found out just how far a person's neck could bend before snapping. Hastur intended to figure this one out by doing several test trials. This one had been a bit overweight would could have been a factor. Regarding the now dead pudgy body that had once been a neighbor of Walter's, Hastur easily felt Walter's shock and terror at what his own hands were doing. 

But the demon only shrugged and mentally shoved Walter only further into the corner. 

He was just getting started after all. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah, feedback, the usual FEEDBACK is the way to make sure more story gets written! It's the only surety in life, everyone. Embrace it.


	12. The Lord Sayeth

Sorry this took so long. Had lots of work and no time this past week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since the day Aziraphale had been stationed on Earth, he had spoken with the Almighty Father only twice. He saw Heaven every now and again when he had to get a new body to replace the one that got inadvertently killed but talks with God were rare for him. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed having a chat. As the angel walked out of his bedroom, he could immediately sense a warm presence fill his mind. This was usually the best part of conversing with God. He always felt so safe. And despite the fact that Aziraphale felt a certain amount of fear for Crowley's fate, he felt himself relax a fraction at the familiar presence. 

He then heard a jingle coming from downstairs, indicating someone was in his shop. Aziraphale frowned. He had locked his door and had put up the easily readable "Closed" sign on the window. How could anyone get in? Had it been a usual day, the angel would have merely gone downstairs to take a look. On this day, however, he looked around to see if he could find a weapon of some sort. His eyes fell on a pair of pliers he kept handy for book repair. 

"You aren't honestly planning on assaulting me with those, are you?" inquired a voice. 

Aziraphale looked up, stunned. He hadn't even noticed the young woman come in. She stood at his doorway, her hair mussed and dampened by the continuing rain. Giving the angel a grin, she raked her fingers through the wet mop. "I do love the feeling of rain. Sunshine can really be overrated these days," she commented. 

Staring at the petite woman, the angel narrowed his eyes slightly before widening them to twice their normal size. "Lord?"

"Aziraphale," she greeted with a smile before scrutinizing the area. "Hm. The Metatron was right. You're not much of a stickler for house cleaning, are you?"

Aziraphale stared at the short woman who went about fingering the dust and perusing over the a few wayward books. "Ahh..it's good to see you?" It sounded more like a question.

Without bothering to ask, the Lord smiled over at the angel. "Last time I was here, I was a man. A very nice gentleman, really. But I thought I'd do a change of pace. Keep it interesting. Variety is the spice of life, you know. Or so I read on a coffee mug once."

"Errr...right. I mean, yes, Lord."

"So, you wanted a word?" inquired the Lord, more out of politeness than lack of knowledge.

Aziraphale nodded. "It's about...well...the Metatron mentioned that...." He tried to find the right words to make his request.

Taking pity on the faltering angel, the Lord jumped in. "Mentioned that what's happened to your friend was not sanctioned by Lucifer?" Seeing Aziraphale's expression, she chuckled. "All-Seeing, remember?"

A thought came to Aziraphale's head and he felt some apprehension as he formed the next question in his mind. Not that it had to be spoken.

"And yes, I do know about your friendship to the demon."

"Oh."

"I can't say I'm too surprised," said the Lord, affably. "He's very charming. Could probably charm the pants off of anyone."

"Ah, he hasn't charmed any clothing off of me," coughed Aziraphale, reddening slightly. 

"Like a married couple, you two are," the Lord stated, knowingly. "Even six thousand plus years has to make a dent. You probably even know his habits and all."

"I haven't forgotten my duty to you, Lord," Aziraphale rushed in. He was beginning to feel slightly out of sorts with where this conversation might be going. God didn't seem upset but then again, He hadn't looked too nasty when he had thrown a bunch of angels from Heaven. 

"Don't worry, Azirphale," assured the Lord, rolling a pair of brown eyes. "As I've said, Crawly is quite charming."

"Crowley," Aziraphale corrected, reflexively. "He changed it awhile back."

"See what I mean? Celebrating a Silver Anniversary soon, you two."

Aziraphale hesitatingly smiled at the joke....as he believed it was a joke. A safe joke. After a moment, his expression sobered and the Lord's smile changed to one of sympathy. "You're asking me, then, are you?" she said. The blond man nodded, hopefully. And then felt the disappointment lance down his body like a knife at what he saw in the woman's face. "He will not survive it. Already he fades."

"But...there has to be..." Aziraphale didn't bother to keep the pleading sound from his voice. The knife fell further, slicing through his stomach. Dropping his gaze from the woman's face, the angel felt something drain from inside of him. He suddenly felt brittle, as if any movement would cause him to shatter into a thousand pieces. Wrapping his arms around his frame, Aziraphale looked down at his floorboards and watched as vertical lines in his vision blurred. 

A hand gently stroked his bowed head. //Aziraphale...// came the soft voice of Lord. All teasing and humor was not replaced with a finalizing sympathy. The woman blurred, expanding, encompassing and the angel could only feel the warm presence, embracing him in his despair. Aziraphale closed his eyes. Crowley was going to cease existing. And he would be alone.

//You will never be alone, Aziraphale. You are loved. You are cherished//

"But....Crowley." The name escaped the angel's throat like a choked whisper. "Is..is it part of your Ineffable Plan?" he asked. That had always been his answer to Crowley whenever the demon had asked him questions about things he did not quite know. Only now he began to realize just how unsatisfactory the response had been.

The embrace loosened around Aziraphale, but the small comfort and love from the gesture remained around the angel as he stood. 

//Do what I have asked of you, my Aziraphale. Find Walter. He has been taken by the demon Hastur. Lead Walter back to Me//

"How?"

//You will know. But you best hurry. Time is short//

The heaviness in Aziraphale's heart tired him. But having been reminded just earlier, the angel did not hide the wishes that weighed him down. He would never show disobedience to the Lord, but he would make his feelings clear. Express them to share them with his Creator. "I want to stay here," he said, softly. "I want to stay here and be with Crowley."

//I know. Do not despair. All drivers need more than just a rearview mirror// added the Lord, a sliver of humor reappearing. 

Aziraphale blinked, confused. 

//Go, Aziraphale. Find Walter//

Swallowing, the angel nodded.

//I must leave now. But I shall see you soon//

When Aziraphale opened his eyes, the woman was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yes, FEEDBACK and all of that, please!


	13. Priorities

Here's the next part.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Watching in critical fascination, Hastur waved Walter's hand through the blazing fire. It almost felt like home. Somewhere in side, Hastur felt Walter cry out in horror more than pain. He ignored it. It was no wonder the whole damn planet hadn't managed to set itself on fire. He had pretty much stumbled across the materials needed and had only had to put two and two together to start the now crackling blaze. The old apartment hadn't stood a chance. 

Hastur wasn't sure, but he could hazard a guess that at least a few civilians had still be inside as he had flicked the match. Just one match was all it had taken. 

*Bloody marvelous* concluded Hastur, watching the flames, now walking away from them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought to perhaps check to see if Crowley was still alive or not. But somehow, it didn't strike him as much fun as this. *Humans. Like shooting fish in a barrel*

The sound of fire engines filled the air and Hastur skipped off to a side alley. No one really took note of him as he wore Walter's face. Having a nondescript host like Walter was having tremendous advantages. The fire engine came to screeching halt, giving the illusion that its firefighters all but fell out the transport. Hastur observed the ones who ran to the back to unwind the fire hose. His eyes fell one in particular. *Ah..there it is...a bit of fear...* The demon drew upon it with relish. *Do you really want to do this? Do you really want to put your own life in danger for a building that's already gone? For people already burnt to a crisp? Do you want to end up like them? Blackened and dead? Screaming in agony?*

"What are you doing, John?! Get a MOVE on!" demanded a confused, angered voice. 

Hastur grinned, watching John the Fireman hesitate, nearly dropping the hose. He couldn't see his face from beneath the mask but the demon was almost positive it'd be the color of week-old cheese. *John has messed up a lot lately, eh? Aren't you rather angry about that?* he suggested to John's partner. Like clockwork, the man began to shout obscenities at the still trembling fireman about his work ethic. Behind them, the fire continued as their colleagues pushed to disperse the arguing men. But somehow they only seemed to add to it, suddenly feeling very angry as well as scared. 

Shoving Walter's hands (one now burnt as well as missing a pinkie) in Walter's pockets, Hastur walked off with a satisfied whistle on his lips. 

+++++++++++++++++++++

"Here you are, then, Mr. A. Ziraphale," giggled the Grigori. "I'm sorry," the angel apologized. "I just think that after living amongst them for so long you could think of a better moniker. I only watch them and I know better."

"It's a bit different, being amongst them," said Aziraphale, taking the file with a slightly clipped air. He felt pressed for time.

"Right, right," waved the angel. He observed as the blond man flipped quickly but meticulously through the report he had provided. Aziraphale wanted to speed things up but made sure the wind whipping about them didn't carry the pages away from him and out into the London City below. "Is there anything else you needed?" asked the Grigori.

"Is this report up to date?" inquired Aziraphale. 

"Up until he went moved out of his parents' place," replied the Grigori. "I got reassigned to another section after that. If you want to find out whose keeping tabs on him currently, you'd have to file for another report. This was just a favor, you know."

"Yes, yes, of course," assured Aziraphale. "I am very grateful to you. This is fine. It's all I need." 

The Grigori smiled pleasantly. "Alright, then. I'll be off. Lots to do. People to see." And with that he hopped casually off the top of the 30-story building. 

The blond man barely acknowledged the other angel's departure as he stuffed the file into his coat pocket. His eyes scanned London below him. Finding Walter would probably not be that difficult. Getting Hastur out of him might take more effort. A small part of Aziraphale told him to go home and stay with Crowley. Time was running out for the demon and if nothing could be done then.....

Then he wanted to be there. 

But there were somethings that couldn't be changed in one day. And one of those things was devotion and loyalty. Aziraphale had served God with both since time had begun. He had smudged the lines a bit here and there, but that was only when it came to orders from his angelic superiors. When it came to the Lord, Aziraphale never disobeyed. And he couldn't begin now. 

With a short sigh, he tucked the file the Grigori had given him more securely inside his coat and stepped off the edge of the building. In a few seconds, he soared above the city.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah, this was a short one. But FEEDBACK would be nice. In fact, it would be great! I'd be forever grateful and feel more inclined to write the next part. *conspiratorial smile*


	14. True to Nature

Here's the next bit. It's longer so hopefully more satisfying. HOPEFULLY. 

This should be the third to last part.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was like watching the telly. 

Only Walter had never been so frightened. 

*Turn. Turn the other way! No, the OTHER way!* he silently commanded his body. But in his heart, Walter knew it was a futile effort. The demon had his body. He could control it about as much as he could control the path of a charging bull. And so he sat in the back as Hastur commanded, afraid and useless. He had tried to tear his eyes away from the sight of the burning building and lift his hands to his ears to drown out the sounds of people screaming. But Hastur had not allowed it. Instead, the demon had relished the sight and sounds and smells of all his destruction using Walter's senses. 

And the museum guard could only watch. 

As time went on, the sensation of not having any sensation seemed to sink into Walter, the way a resigned acceptance sank into one facing certain death. It seemed to be a perfect conclusion to his rather consistent life. He had accomplished nothing in his life and he would most likely die having accomplished nothing. Other than possibly allowing a demon to use his arms to light fires and break the necks of people. Walter might have felt a little better had he even wanted those things to happen. At least then he could pretend it was he who was doing it. 

Nothing in his life ever went his way, no matter how much he had wanted it to. It only seemed appropriate now that his body had joined the lists of things that refused to bend to his will. Why not? He was a failure. It wasn't even worth trying anymore. He had felt like nothing for so long. And now it was concretely true. 

+++++++++++++++++++

Crowley had never dreamt before. Slept. Napped. But never dreamt. He had only heard about it second hand from humans, read it in books and seen representations of it in movies. But he had ever had the first hand experience. So, he wasn't quite sure he even *was* dreaming. 

But he had to be. Only in dreams could it possibly make sense to him that God would be talking to him. Or hovering over him, as it was in this case. It was an odd situation. He could see the deity as clear as day. And yet could sense nothing from Him. It was the same lack of sensation he got whenever he saw a painting or statue that was to represent the Lord. An emptiness. It reminded Crowley that he was fallen. No matter how much Earth might change around him or how many years might pass and lines became blurred. He was no longer an angel. He was out of God's light. And it suited him just fine.

//You're quite ill, Crowley//

//Really? Wow....if anyone ever doubted you were omniscient before, there's proof positive right there.//

Crowley thought he saw a smile. 

//You haven't changed all that much. At least not since a certain point, that is//

//Well, were you expecting anything more? You're supposed to *know* already, aren't you?// he demanded. It suddenly occurred to the demon that he wasn't talking out loud. And in a rare moment, Crowley was thankful his mind could just be read. 

//You were never a trusting type//

//That's the way you made me, isn't it?//

//Poor Crowley. Is it all that black and white for you?//

//Oh Hell, can't a demon die in peace? What do you want? Want me to ask for a pardon? No thanks. If I'm gonna go, I'd rather do it sticking to what *I* know to be true//

//And that is?//

//Read my fucking mind, you overblown Ineffable prat// Despite his already fallen nature, Crowley had never thought to actually insult God to His face. But considering his circumstances, he wasn't about to practice being polite. 

//Aziraphale has spoken on your behalf. He did not say so outloud but it was evident in his mind that he hoped I would pardon you//

//Are you?//

//No//

//Good// The demon felt a momentary wave of affection for the blond angel. An honest one that wasn't tainted with secondary malevolent thoughts of temptation. He felt grateful towards Aziraphale and felt some regret at knowing he would be long gone before the angel returned. //Told him he was wasting his time. Now, go away//

The presence stayed, its outline smudging in the demon's fading vision.

//Go away// Crowley ordered, hoping his thoughts were coming through loud and clear. //I don't want you here. I'm not one of your 'children'. I ditched that. Leave me alone. Let me disappear on my own. Go. Away//

The image faded and Crowley became aware that he was still lying in Aziraphale's bed. He couldn't really feel his body anymore. Or at least, his human body. He thought about all his former human shapes Hell had given him, buried in random parts of the country, burned in some situations and in one particular incident he could remember, torn into a few pieces. He wondered what would happen to his current one. After he was gone, it would be only a shell. But unlike the times before, he wouldn't be leaving it to go back to Hell. He didn't even know where he was going. He didn't have a soul. He would just...disappear. Not exist anymore. Cease. End. 

The thought scared him slightly, much to his own chagrin. 

But there was nothing to be done about it. His own bloody carelessness. His fault. He supposed he deserved it in a way. So, goodbye to life on earth. Goodbye to existence in general. Goodbye to Aziraphale. It was a shame he would be able to say something more meaningful to the angel before he stuffed it. All their conversations were usually sandwiched by shots of scotch and whiskey, making them more than not, nonsensical. Now that he was staring end of existence in the face, he would have liked to tell his counterpart that while humans had the luxury of using free-will as a tool to surprise him constantly, Aziraphale had always been the one to make life a bit more interesting. 

In all his years on earth, there had been nothing more fascinating or strangely affecting for Crowley than watching Aziraphale become his friend. 

++++++++++++++++++

Flying above the city, Aziraphale quickly saw the column of smoke as the last of the fire died under the streams of water. It had to be Hastur. The general area had residues of a demonic nature. Aziraphale had often felt it walking around the city in Crowley's wake, feeling the demon's signature temptations stamped on the essences of so many humans. The angel had often characterized the feeling as sharp and brittle. As one would think the texture of a cactus would be. This one felt more oily and thick, like tepid pools of liquid lying about the London streets. 

Hastur. 

Settling himself down away from the dwindling chaos of the fire, Aziraphale followed the trail left carelessly or perhaps boldly by the demon. The angel swiftly traveled along the sparse streets. After his last turns and steps, a construction site opened up to his view before him. A few remaining workers were still securing the area before ending their day. Across the street from the site stood a medium sized man with his hands in his pockets. 

He seemed to be looking thoughtfully at a wrecking ball that was currently hanging innocently near the skeletal scaffolding. 

Before Aziraphale even reached him, the man smiled and turned to look at the angel. It was all that Aziraphale needed to know it was Hastur. No human could smile like that. There was a strange manner in exposing the gums, which was unnatural. 

"Ah, the angel friend, " smirked an otherwise, plain voice. He said 'friend' as if it were something mildly revolting. "Pardon the appearance," he continued, gesturing with a severely burnt and pinkie-less hand. "Not really my choice of human."

"If that's the case, you can always leave," Aziraphale stated, coldly.

"And miss all the fun?" inquired Hastur. "I never understood why you and the snake were so keen on keeping this miserable planet around. But I get it now. Marvelous stuff, these human bodies. Much better when you get 'em natural. Not the Hell-made shite they peddle to you." Hastur pulled back on the thin lips to reveal another millimeter of pink gums. "Speaking of which....how goes it with Crowley?"

Aziraphale didn't answer. Hastur looked pleased. 

"Well, seemed the human did the job competently enough."

"Duke Hastur," Aziraphale began, formally with an accented iciness. "I am giving you fair warning to leave Walter Kettich's body willingly."

"Or what? You'll kill me?" scoffed Hastur. "You have to go through Walter first, mate. I'd like to see you try and kill an innocent."

"I'll do no such thing," replied Aziraphale. An odd aura surrounded the blond man in the horrifically rumpled coat. There was a surety in the way he stood and seemed to regard Hastur. The blue eyes began to shine a pure, unwavering faith. But not in himself. "Walter."

"Eh? You trying to talk to the human? Oh, good bloody luck."

Aziraphale ignored Hastur's words and concentrated instead on the sound of Walter's voice. There was a cloud of darkness that surrounded the soul of Walter Kettich. The man's essence was drowning in the bleak despair and horror that Hastur seemed to breath. But the small, dwindling part of the man that remembered his innocent belief in God, that recalled the floaty sensation of kissing his first girl, the first time he ever drove a car and other carefree, simple precious memories, shined beneath the demonic shroud. 

To that part in Walter, Aziraphale smiled and spoke to. The angel could faintly hear Hastur's laughter but he ignored it. Instead, he reminded Walter of the time he had returned to a shop as a teenager because the cashier had given him too much change. Of the time he had sent that Valentine's Day card to that girl in the back of the class that no one paid attention to. Of the ashtray he had once made his father in arts and crafts. His dad still had it at his office. 

Aziraphale trailed down the list of things Walter did. They still existed. They still lingered. In memories and as concrete evidence. Of all the small kind things Walter did without thinking much about it and had sadly thought afterwards hadn't mattered. But they had. People noticed and God always noticed. He tried to convince Walter in the power of his own action. In his abilities to be HIM. Because he was Walter and that was important enough. That was something definitely worth trying to hold on to. 

He only had to fight. Fight to get rid of the demon who was only evil and incapable of so many things Walter was capable of. He just had to try. Try to push him out and reclaim what was rightfully his.

//You only have to TRY//

Somewhere along the line, Hastur stopped laughing.

He looked confused at first and then dismissive. But then Walter's face began to contort, exposing clenched teeth. His limbs began to jerk in quick stop movements, making him look like he was having a seizure. But Aziraphale only stood by the form and watched, hopeful. Walter's body doubled over, coughing and hacking. From his opened, gagging mouth, Aziraphale saw a mass of squirming, wriggling larvae-like bodies be vomited up. As the pale white creatures hit the ground, the solidified into a more familiar shape. 

Hastur. 

It had been Aziraphale's plan to use the holy water inside his coat pocket at that moment. But before he could even act, the air suddenly smelled of rotten eggs. And much to both the angel and Hastur's surprise, the cement ground under the demon cracked open. Strangely, the gaping area exuded a rather satisfied, smug air of one who was looking forward to seeing someone get punished. With a startled howl, Hastur fell in through the opening. And as quickly as it appeared, the crack was gone with only a faint whisper of smoke to indicate anything had ever been there. 

Aziraphale quickly stepped through the small puff of white, scattering it into the air as he walked over to Walter who lay on the ground. Reaching down, the angel took the man's damaged hand. Walter groaned faintly under the touch the blinked open his eyes to stare at the blond man leaning over him. 

"Why...am I on the floor?" asked Walter, faintly. "And why are you holding my hand?" he added, looking dazedly at the joint hands.  

Aziraphale smiled casually. "I was just helping you up. You seemed to have fallen down but no injuries." It wasn't a question. He pulled Walter up by his perfectly normal, five-fingered hand. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FEEDBACK, please. Yes, yes, the usual pleas and begging.


	15. Meeting of the Minds

Another new part! Yes, this story is almost done!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't bother to wait for any word. Instead, Aziraphale released his wings once more and flew. Swooping under the London overcast, he arrived back at his bookshop in less than ten minutes. The door chime slammed violently into the wall next to the door as the angel ran in, his feet stomping down hard on the boards. He raced up the stairs, two steps at a time. 

"Crowley! I'm back!" he shouted, shoving open the door to the repair room and then the bedroom. It was just as he had left it. Quilts remained tucked around the demon's familiar form in the middle of the bed, the curtains still drawn. "Crowley?" 

Approaching the bed, Aziraphale valiantly attempted to keep the pressure in his throat down. With extreme care, he touched a quilted shoulder and shook it. There was no response. Forgoing being careful, the angel shook harder in a desperate attempt to assure himself. "Crowley? Crowley, wake up," he ordered. "Crowley!"

The normally pale face of the demon's human body remained unchanged, looking as if he was simply sleeping, blissfully unaware of the world around him. But Aziraphale, despite his mental protests and urge to deny it, knew the truth. The body was now only a shell. Crowley was no longer within it. It was so easy to sense the emptiness beneath the superficial skin. He was gone. In one last ditch attempt fueled by denial, the angel gathered Crowley in his arms and shook him hard, willing and begging for a response. 

Of course, there was none.

A million practical issues flew through Aziraphale's mind. Such as contacting the Metatron to see if there was anything else he had to contend with regarding Walter, or contacting God Himself, or seeing about that apartment being burnt down or Walter's unfortunate neighbor or even those three books he had been meaning to repair. But it all seemed rather inconsequential at the moment. For all he could do was try and envision the rest of his assignment on earth without Crowley. 

They had saved the world together because they enjoyed the way things were on earth. But it all seemed less apparent to the angel now that his counterpart was gone. It dawned on Aziraphale that he had never lost anyone before. What did it mean? No more lunches, no more drinking, no more talking about issues that always went circular? It all seemed so frivolous in a list form. It was quite simple. No more Crowley. No more expecting him, seeing him, *knowing* he was always around, somewhere. The comfort of 6000 plus years was gone. 

But more significantly, his best friend was gone. 

And grief, in its purest form, unknown before to Aziraphale, crushed down upon him like a mace. With infinite care, the angel settled the demon's former body back down onto the bed, keeping one arm loosely draped across the still chest as he laid down on his stomach, next to Crowley. Pressing one side of his face against a pillow, Aziraphale could feel the soft cover soak up and grow warmer from the tears that had leaked out. He stared through the watery eyes at the form next to him and despite what God Himself had assured him, Aziraphale felt horribly alone. 

Closing his eyes and turning his head away from Crowley's form, Aziraphale silently continued to weep before falling asleep for the first time on earth, letting the grief exhaust him. 

+++++++++++++++++++

"You ever try a woman shape?" asked the elderly woman. Her orthopedic shoes lay discarded on the boardwalk while a pair of stockings lay strewn in the sand near where the boardwalk officially met the beach.

"I did, once," replied a young man, sitting gingerly in the sand. He still wore his large army boots and perfectly styled red hair. "Didn't really like it. Too much fussing about and hair going all about the place." He eyed the stray white strands that had escaped the old woman's bun and was now wildly being blown about her perfectly round face that any grandchild would love. 

Digging her toes appreciatively into the cool sand, she tapped a black army boot with a finger. "You're not meant to wear shoes on a beach, you know. Defeats the purpose."

"You mind?" demanded the young man, clearly irritated. "I'd rather not go exposing my feet right now, if you get my meaning."

"I always thought you should give five toes a chance. They can really be quite entertaining."

"Look, can we just get on, already? I've got stuff to attend to."

"Hastur?"

"Being dealt with as we speak," replied the young man, a grin splitting his face. "Was a snap to find him...after your people managed to get him out," he added, a bit grudgingly. The old woman nodded. She let some sand slip through between her toes. The redhead let out an impatient grunt. "So, I suppose you want something for one of your angels getting us out of a fix."

"Well, it was quite a major mistake on your part. I mean, keeping track of where your people are doing what...."

"I knew it. Still love gloating, don't you? Everyone thinks you've mellowed out but really under all of that you're still the exact same vengeful deity who ordered a flood of massive proportions."

"I was not gloating nor do I love doing so. I didn't rub the whole Bartleby/Loki situation in your face, did I? Or the little matter of your own son refusing to follow simple orders?" 

"Oh, yeah, none of those," replied the redhead, caustically. 

"Let's not argue about this now," suggested the woman, retying her bun. "We've got other matters to attend to." 

"Such as the little payment you're going to ask for now, eh?"

"It's not for just my benefit, you know."

"Educate me," challenged the redhead. 

"Well, I didn't see you exactly scrambling to punish Crowley after he disposed of Ligur."

"I was constructing a proper punishment for him," insisted the redhead. 

"But nothing as severe as disposing of him, correct?"

"Well.....no," he admitted, sullenly. It was true. Ligur had been slightly higher in rank than Crowley but the bastard had been pretty bloody useless. He and Hastur put together had been unable to bring ONE lower demon back down to Hell. That was incompetence in flashing lights. And Crowley well....

As much as he hated to admit it or think about it, the snake could be clever. He certainly was aware of how things worked on earth and while his most recent participation in thwarting Armageddon gave him a lot to reconsider concerning the demon, he knew he needed Crowley to some extent. At least to stay up there and function. The souls ending up in Hell had been on a rise before the near end of the world. Whatever his practice, Crowley had obviously been getting something right. 

"Crowley's been around since all of this came about," gestured the old woman. "You need him around. He's the only one of you who knows how this place operates."

"Pretty ironic that my guy knows this place better than yours," smirked the redhead. 

"Knew," corrected the woman.

"Ah."

"Yes."

"So..."

"A lot went on because of Hastur's little spree," she began.

"Right, point the finger."

"And so, I think," she pressed on, ignoring the complaint. "That a bit of..." she gestured with her fingers, "is justified, yes?"

The redhead thought to protest. Thanks to Hastur's momentary lapse in good judgment, he had gained a few new souls in Hell. But he did consider the big picture. He was the Ruler of Hell, after all. He could think economically on this. A few souls being thrown back up could lead to more souls being brought down. Some human had thought of an adequate phrase to describe it: "For every action, there's reaction." Well, he bloody well hoped that for his action of throwing up a few souls taken untimely, a batch coming down would be the reaction. 

He agreed. "Reverse it a day, if you like."

The woman nodded. "Now, about Crowley..."

"What? You want to add him onto the reversal mix?" asked the redhead. He chuckled at the notion. "I don't think so."

"You need him as well."

"As well?" picked up the young man. "What does that mean?"

"It's not important."

"Not important as in 'not important' or not important as in 'it's related to the Ineffable Plan', not important?"

"I thought you didn't believe in that," smirked the woman.

"I'm an open-minded sort. Which is more than I can say for SOME of us," he replied, pointedly. He fixed the granny with a stare. "Why the interest in him? He's one of mine. Not yours."

"Exactly why you need to agree with me about this. You've got to show me what's in my blind spot."

"Your blind what?"

"Ever been in a car?" asked the old woman.

"No." He had only seen a snapshot of the one Crowley used to drive.

"Nevermind. The point is....I need your sanction on it because he is one of yours," she clarified. "You need to help me realize the demon part of him."

"What you mean *part*?" he demanded. "Still operating on this whole 'we're only a part of you' thing, aren't you?"

"We can sit here and argue about this all day and then have to rewind 48 hours," replied the woman. "Or, you can say yes now and you can have back your well-versed demon and I can go about my merry way. Back to the usual usual."

He wanted to continue pressing on the issue of just why it was Crowley was so interesting to the Enemy. He was a lower class demon, really in most respects. Just unique because he had been given the specific assignment of staying topside at all times. It wasn't really like Him to show favoritism. Especially when it came to fallen angels. 

"You got some sort of trick up your sleeve. It's obvious," stated the redhead.

"I suppose I do. But if I told you, it'd spoil all the fun, wouldn't it?" she countered, a bright smile breaking across the wizened, plump face. It turned rather secretive as she grabbed a handful of sand and let it trickle past her fingers. 

The redhead pulled a slightly annoyed face. But it was a half-hearted effort. Surprises *were* more interesting. Especially when in the meantime he could play without the Almighty supervision. He grabbed his own handful of sand in a fist and let it slide through in one long funnel while giving the old woman a sidelong look. 

"You know, I still haven't made up my mind," he stated. "Crowley's good but he's not *that* good."

"Pity we're both so busy," remarked the old woman, ignoring the comment. "I would have liked to make a sand castle. Never done one of those."

"Hm," replied the redhead, darkly. "Loads more fun to kick one down. You should see those kids cry..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FEEDBACK, yes? You know the drill? I'm just repeating myself? FEEDBACK, yes?


	16. A New Day

Before he even opened his eyes, Walter felt a large headache going on upstairs. He winced, only daring to open his eyes after he knew it would be a cloudy day and sunlight was minimal. His head felt strangely disjointed from his body, like he was recovering from a drinking binge. But he didn't remember going drinking last night. What had he done? He had gone to work....come home....and that was it, wasn't it?

Walter opened his eyes and found himself lying on his sofa in the living room.

The TV was on, muted. He must have fallen asleep to it the night before. The clock on his VCR told him it was only seven am. Clicking it off set, Walter rose to his feet, noticing he was still wearing his rumpled work clothes. Running a hand through his messed hair, Walter stretched his back and began to walk towards his front door. Passing his calendar, he saw it was only Wednesday. He wouldn't have to be at work until noon. Maybe he'd have breakfast out. 

Opening his front door, Walter bent over to pick up the newspaper left on his mat. His headache seemed to be disappearing as he did so. And once that had more or less dispersed, Walter felt rather relaxed. He must have gotten a good night's sleep. Scanning the front page, Walter didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. It had apparently been a rather uneventful Tuesday. 

"Good mornin' Walter, lad," greeted a voice to his left. Turning, Walter smiled and raised a greeting hand to his neighbor, Mr. Tavish. The sight of the pudgy man in his robe was strangely relieving to Walter for some reason. 

"Good morning, Mr. Tavish," he replied.

"Had a bit of a night, eh?" asked the man, noting the state of Walter's appearance. 

"I can't really remember," admitted the man, honestly.

Tavish grinned at him, waving his own paper. "Ay eh? That's a definite yes to me."

Walter smiled back. "Maybe."

"Have a good day at work then, Walt."

"Hmmm...thanks. You too, Mr. Tavish," Walter replied, slightly distracted. Did he really want to go to work? Not really. Life forever as a museum guard didn't sound terribly pleasant to Walter. Funny. He had never given it much thought before, but he now thought it was time for a change. After all, there had to be something else he could do. Something he was probably even good at. He had some money saved up. He could take a trip. Or spend some time figuring out what he wanted to do. That would be nice. Smiling to himself, Walter closed his front door to make some plans. 

+++++++++++++++++++

The pillow still felt slightly damp under Aziraphale's cheek as the angel slowly opened his eyes. Having never slept before, the sensation of waking up left him feeling slightly disoriented. But after a few moments, he realized why he had fallen asleep in the first place and the events that had transpired. 

Hastur.

Walter.

Crowley.

Feeling the body under his arm, Aziraphale turned his head and looked over at the demon. Or the body that had once been the demon, Aziraphale remembered. Lying beside him, the demon looked more like he was asleep, appearing almost strangely content with the angel's arm wrapped around him. But Aziraphale ordered his mind to stop imagining such things. Fresh tears threatened the angel again as he looked at the empty shell of his counterpart. He told himself to realize that it was just a body that looked like Crowley. A body wearing Crowley's clothes but not the demon himself. Crowley was dead. It was just the body in....

Crowley's clothes.

Crowley was wearing his clothes. The clothes that had gotten wet from the rain the night before. Aziraphale distinctly remembered taking them off before putting the demon to bed. How had they gotten back on?

Galvanized by a sudden burst of hope, Aziraphale sat up in a rush and shook the black-clad demon. "Crowley? Crowley, wake up!"

"Hmmpph...stop shaking me," Crowley ordered, groggily as he opened his eyes. Rubbing at head, the demon slowly sat up on the bed. "Bloody all....I feel like....hell," he finished unable to think of a better word.

Staring into the yellow slitted irises, Aziraphale nearly shouted out in both disbelief and immeasurable happiness. But still wanting to make sure, he began to unbutton Crowley's shirt with a frantic, mad pace. 

"Uhh...angel? Not that I couldn't get used to this but what are you doing?" questioned Crowley, seeing the near fevered look in Aziraphale's eyes as he undid the buttons. 

Not replying, the angel opened the loose shirt and inspected the unmarred flesh. No bruises, nothing. The demon looked absolutely perfect. Crowley was about to voice his question again when he was nearly bowled over as Aziraphale threw his arms around the demon. 

"Crowley! You're...it's...." Aziraphale's attempts at explaining dithered off as the angel began to sob with relief. 

Not knowing exactly why Aziraphale was both laughing and crying, Crowley stared, confusedly passed the angel's shoulder as the blond man continued to hug him. Tentatively, he patted the blond's back. "Aziraphale? Angel, what's wrong?" he asked, actually feeling some concern. 

"Nothing," sobbed the angel even more at the demon's nickname for him. He thought he would never hear it ever again. "Nothing at all. It's all quite perfect."

"Err...okay."

"I'm just so incredibly happy to see you, Crowley," Aziraphale stated, tightening his grip on the demon even more. 

Feeling rather glad about the fact that he didn't actually *need* to breathe as it would have been impossible at the moment, Crowley nodded, still feeling a bit confused. "Happy to see you too."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You know that FEEDBACK is required if you want to see the last part, right? Heh.


	17. Life Rolls On

Well, end of the line everyone! It's time to get off! I have to admit, this ending is not the best it could be but I'm tired of messing around with it so I have to post it before it just gets more dusty and worn through. 

My second largish fic is done. It was fun at parts, not so fun at other parts but I'm feeling generally pleased. Hope the rest of you got some entertainment out of it. 

So, without further ado: The Last Part

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I rather like that shape," admired the young man, nodding his dark head. "Kept the red hair, eh?"

"It's a lot easier to think about," replied the redheaded middle-aged woman. Her small lips were twisted in an annoyed grimace. "Why are we meeting again? Everything's gone to plan, hasn't it?"

"Oh, yes," replied the young man, brightly. "But I rather like these conversations."

"You just like any chance to slip on a body and come down here. Haven't you learned your lesson after the whole Azrael incident?" The dark-haired young man waved his hand about in a dismissive manner. "Oh, very wise," quipped the redhead. "So, has there been some sort of cock up?"

"Don't you know?" asked the young man, sweetly.

"Of course I do," snapped the woman. "I'm just saying. Maybe you *think* there's been a screw up somewhere along the line?"

"Oh, not at all. Actually, the whole thing has gone quite smoothly. Mr. Kettich is getting on quite well, Mr. Tavish is...well, he *is* which is the most important bit."

"Hm," grumbled the redhead. Tavish had been one of their catches. She hoped he would not turn to the other side before his number was up again. 

"And the reunion was awfully heart-warming."

"Oh, gag."

"Don't be so cynical. It was all very nice and lovely."

"Except that Crowley can't remember what happened," pointed out the redhead. The young man smiled not without a hint of smugness. "I absolutely *hate* it when you do that." The young man only continued to smile.

++++++++++++++++++++

Aziraphale was in an unusually good mood. So much so that he actually opened his bookshop during fairly normal working hours. Sipping contently at his cup of tea, the angel was flipping through a new book purchase of his own when the door jingled the entrance of someone coming in. For a moment, Aziraphale had to order his hand not to drop the teacup and also remind himself that in the perfectly normal reality that they currently inhabited, he would not know the name of his customer. 

"Hello, sir. How may I help you?" inquired the angel, politely.

Walter Kettich looked around the store for a moment. "Sorry. I might be in the wrong kind of bookshop. I was looking for travel books."

Aziraphale twitched his hand slightly under the counter and brought up a small stack of books for any part of the country one might wish to visit. "I do have a few. Where did you have in mind?" he asked.

"I was thinking of visiting America," said Walter with a pleased smile. "I've never been there but I hear it's quite nice, depending on where you go."

Aziraphale smiled in return. "Oh, I'm sure it is."

Taking a few moments, he helped Walter select three books as well as gave him the names of a few other shops that could help him. Handing over a small bag that held guidebooks for New York, LA, and Phoenix, the angel smiled brightly. "Have a nice trip, Mr. Kettich. A nice holiday."

Walter's smile turned slightly confused. "How'd you know my name?"

Aziraphale blinked. "Name tag," he indicated to the shiny gold pin that now glimmered on Walter's lapel. 

"Huh. Thought I'd taken it off," mused Walter, fingering the tag. He took it off. "Well, don't work there now," he said happily. Taking his purchases in hand he thanked Aziraphale again and left the shop. As the all but skipped down the steps, a young man in dark sunglasses passed him. On the last step, Walter paused for a moment and gave the dark-clad man a momentary glance as if he wanted to say something. But as he walked quickly into the bookshop without even sparing a backwards glance, Walter just shook his head and continued down the road.

"Crowley," greeted Aziraphale, happily. He noted that his counterpart looked quite demonic today which was a good sign. "Are you here for lunch?" he asked, walking around from behind the counter.

"No," replied the demon, firmly pushing his sunglasses over his eyes. "I've got a few other matters to take care of. Erm....downstairs things and long overdue temptation appointments and all..." he muttered out. 

Aziraphale squinted past his gold-rimmed glasses. "You feel alright, my dear?" he inquired. 

"It's bloody bright outside," groused Crowley. "London's not meant to see sunlight."

"But you feel alright?" the angel repeated, failing to sound nonchalant about it.

"Y'mothering me," said the demon but his voice lacked some of its usual disgusted venom. It sounded more thoughtful.

"I am not," defended Aziraphale, nevertheless with a bit of humor. He shifted slightly as Crowley continued to stare at him with greater scrutiny. "Err...anything wrong?" he asked, although it sounded slightly dumb coming from him. It had taken Aziraphale a few choice words and lots of unused imagination on his part to convince Crowley the morning before that he had been crying for no good reason. It had been apparent to Aziraphale that the demon did not remember the incident with the holy water and felt it was perhaps best not to press the issue. Crowley had left that day, slightly confused but seemed to believe the angel's excuse that he had simply slept over due to being over-toxicated from the night before. 

"Hm?" murmured Crowley, shaking himself slightly at Aziraphale's question.

"I said is anything wrong."

"Nah. S'all fine," replied the other being, sounding a bit distracted. 

Aziraphale smiled. "Well, as long as that's settled." Turning his back to the demon for a moment, Aziraphale picked up the answering machine Crowley had purchased for him. "Do you want to have dinner later, then? I need to ask you a few questions about this machine. I'm still having problems with-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Aziraphale felt something all but slam into his back as two arms wrapped around him. It took the angel a few seconds of stumbling forward to realize Crowley was hugging him. Blinking in surprise, the angel continued to stare straight ahead while still clutching the answering machine in one hand. He could feel the warmth of the demon's body pressing against him. In the silence of the empty bookshop, only the slight scuffling of shoes could be heard. 

Aziraphale had once said being sensitive came with the job of being an angel. And it certainly came into play at that moment. Crowley normally was very good at hiding his actual feelings as whatever little he did possess he kept it swathed under layers and layers of sarcasm and cynicism. But the angel could feel quite easily the energy and emotion flowing through the owner of the arms that were tightly clutching at him. It felt nice. Almost loving. 

"Told you, you were wasting your time," whispered Crowley from behind him. The warm breath fluttered against his blond hair. "But you went ahead and saved me anyway. Like a guardian angel, you are." The demon pressed his forehead against the angel's exposed neck, black hair mingling with golden strands. "Thank you," he murmured into the soft cotton of Aziraphale's pullover. He tightened his grip on the angel one moment longer before releasing him. Aziraphale stood for a second, stunned but feeling a new warm glow fill him. It was different than the kind he felt around God but it was pleasing and comforting nonetheless. By the time he turned around, Crowley was gone, having slipped out silently and ordering the bell above the door to remain silent. But the angel smiled, nonetheless as the warm glow remained with him in the demon's wake. 

"Your welcome."

THE END

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, I chickened about concerning lemons. Maybe next time.


End file.
